As I have said before I am someone who falls on the unattractive side of being organized and Type A. I don't even think the word "perfectionist" is a good way of putting it because it sounds like a good thing.
This week I'm in New Jersey to get some quality time in with my family. Today's activity was to build a gingerbread house. In my mind it was going to be a work of art and architecture. Straight lines of perfectly piped icing and gently created icicles hanging from the roof.
What I didn't factor in was the very antsy three year old who was absolutely dying to help with every.single.step of the project--from holding the walls while the icing dried to piping the walls himself. Not only that, the kid was consuming the vast majority of our building supplies. With a single "Jill!!! I want to do it!" I realized my perfect holiday gingerbread house was going up in smoke.
Instead of a perfect gingerbread house, we got something that would be dangerously close to being condemned if it were real--crooked windows, a detached roof and uneven walls.
When we'd used up (or more accurately when I realized that Evan had consumed the vast majority of) our candy, and our quick-dry icing was a solid brick, I was ready to give up and call it a day, but then I heard Evan let out a squeal and launch himself at me.
"It's beautiful, Jill! We did a great job." Now, how can I argue with that? His way of viewing it is so much better than mine.
